I am a freelance writer with a focus on the Ballard neighborhood. I love connecting what is happening in the community with my own life. I was born to be at large.

Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate..

Gift in the Snow

The sleet became more snow than rain just as the end-of-season soccer party began. There could not have been a better day to be within the steam-covered windows of the India Bistro on Market. The owner was still vacuuming as the first of seventeen teenage girls and their families arrived for a private party buffet. Shoppers caught in the sleet and wind looked inside longingly, but until 4:45 p.m. the restaurant was ours.

The team has been together with the same coach for six years. The life of the coach probably merits a book, in which his stories about speaking seven languages, working as a bodyguard, breaking every bone in his body, doing covert work, trying out for the NFL as a place kicker and playing in a British soccer league are either all lies, or all true. He’s also a bartender, a sommelier in training, a ladies man, the first known metrosexual and able to speak to cats. Rob can identify wines in a blind taste test but he gets his coffee from 7-11. He’s single and lives the nocturnal life of a gamer, billiard player and restaurant employee. Each of the girls on the team has an excellent grasp of British cuss words and are confident that there will always be a Welsh bartender to protect them from perverts (their word) who occasionally hang out on the fringes of their practice fields. Rob has coached the team since they were sweet-faced little girls wearing pig tails; now they are taller than their parents, each taking their driving tests and reveling in the power of being teenage girls.

It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving. The snow was falling, the bread from the tandoori oven was being replenished and India Bistro was brewing pot after pot of chai tea for our only non-sideline convergence. No speeches, no trophies, just a sense of contentment among all the parents that our girls still love running after a ball, that they are good to one another, staying healthy, making good choices. The parents are just along for the ride.

Rob was an hour late to the party. He is always iffy on time, especially for morning games, arriving with 7-11 coffee and a wretched looking plastic-wrapped burrito. Yet he makes it to every game, practice twice a week, fusses over details in between. Each year we try to find the right gift since he refuses any payment. He never used the spa certificate that we gave him last year or wore the workout pants that didn’t need duct tape. He’s the type of 30-something consumer who buys whatever he wants, when he wants. If he’s saving for a rainy day it’s not obvious. So this year I decided to give in to his way of life. Why not just give him a 7-11 gift card? Habitude gift certificates for the female assistant coaches, a $150 7-11 gift card for Rob.

I went to the 7-11 at the bottom of NW 32nd. There was a tall woman working alone. I don’t know why it surprised me but she was very attractive, had a pleasant voice and dealt beautifully with the lecherous advances of a much older man who hung a cigarette off of his lip long before he planned to go outside. She didn’t blink at the amount of the gift card, whereas I was apologetic as though ashamed to be buying one. “If this is where someone likes to go, they’ll love to get this,” she said.

After the presentation of gifts everyone vanished into the sleety dark. Suddenly I was the only left out of 45 people, settling the bill in my final act as Treasurer. Mike, the owner at India Bistro said, “whatever it’s doing outside, I wish it would stop.” The after-party movie at the Crest was Rob’s idea but he was going to stop by his apartment on the way for the team photos he’d forgotten.

I didn’t witness what happened next. The assistant coach saw Rob by his car with his hood up by Seattle Eyewear. She stopped and stood by him for nearly an hour in the sleet. She called me with confusing details involving a very helpful cop named John, a guy who is living in his van who happened to be a mechanic, several people helping to push the car up onto the curb to get it out of traffic, and the apparent loss of all fuel in the gas tank due to a broken fuel filter line.

Rob called an hour later as he headed for Jiffy Lube, his car miraculously drivable due to the unemployed mechanic. His question: “that 7-11 card you gave me, how much was on it?”

$150,” I said. “Did you need to use it already?”

“I didn’t have any cash,” he said. “I gave it to the homeless guy who helped me out. It’s fine. If it wasn’t for him I’d still be freezing my butt on Market Street.”

Well, for once he had used his gift, the one that he has for giving rather than receiving.

Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate..